


Beautiful

by xanzpet (gleefulmusings)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Drama, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Post Season 7, Romance, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleefulmusings/pseuds/xanzpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sunnydale falls, Xander and Faith make tentative steps toward each other, but compounded losses and the mistakes of the past keep getting in their way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful

She laid beside him in the dark, lost in her own thoughts, yet comforted by his heartbeat, which, though erratic, was nevertheless strong. Sometimes it was her only clue that he was still alive. She felt ridiculous that she had to focus all of her enhanced senses just to make sure he was breathing.

He no longer spoke, however, let alone cracked his corny jokes, so that left her to fill the silences, and she was failing badly.  
  
It was discomforting to be trapped in the dizzying opaque blackness of his bedroom, knowing the sun was brightly shining just beyond the window which was never opened.

He didn’t leave the room anymore, not even to eat. After a while, the others had stopped leaving food at his door in an effort to force him out into the open, so he simply stopped eating. Faith had screamed at Buffy and Willow that their tough-love bullshit wasn’t going to work with Xander; it never had, and their super special powers would never be strong enough to defeat his stubborn nature.  
  
It really bothered her that those who were supposed to be his best friends, his only family now, really didn’t seem to know who he was or what he needed. He needed to be alone, or, at the very least, emotionally secluded.

The others stupidly thought he had withdrawn so that he might berate himself further for the deaths of those they had lost. Sure, that was a big part of it, but there was more. There was always more with him. There was so much lurking beneath the surface, it made her want to weep, but she never did, because she wasn't a pussy.

Xander just needed to mourn. He couldn’t share his grief with Buffy or Willow because they didn’t understand it.

Frankly, Faith believed they had never really tried.  
  
She didn’t know why he had chosen her, why he had allowed her to stay with him, but he had.

After the first week, she had moved into his bedroom. There had been squawking protests from the others, of course, but Dawn had settled the argument quickly. No one was going to interfere in _her_ Xander’s recovery, and if Xander wanted Faith, Xander would have her.

Faith smiled at the memory. Pip going all bossy and demanding had been a surprise, but a welcome one. The fact that Buffy and Willow almost seemed frightened of angering Dawn made it all the more delicious. Perhaps there was reason, though. No one really knew what Dawn was capable of, so it was never discussed. Was she still the Key, even though the door was gone forever? Did it even matter?  
  
She looked over at him, across the bed they shared.

He had never tried anything. In typical Faith-fashion, she had made it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t be turned away. She still wanted him; she had never really stopped. That was the thing about him. If you let him get under your skin, he never left. Once, that desire had terrified her, but now it fueled her.

He just wasn’t interested.

  
  
_He drowns in his dreams  
an exquisite extreme, I know._

  
  
He was having another nightmare. She knew all the signs by now.

His breath would hitch as his heart rate sped up. He’d toss and turn violently in the bed, either to reach out or push away; she was never sure. Sometimes he spoke and, while garbled, she could make out a name, screamed in horror or fraught with begging.

He often called for Anya, and she knew he was dreaming of searching for her in the rubble of the school.

He frequently screamed for Cordelia, knowing he was seeing her fall through the floor of that warehouse. Except for the one time it wasn't about that. She winced and lowered her eyes at the memory.

Sometimes it was her name, and she knew he was dreaming of that night. Not the first one they had spent together, but the second, when she had tried to kill him. The first time he called for her, she had started and bolted upright in the bed, hoping that he would finally let her in, let her _help_ , but when she had looked over, she had seen him trying to pry invisible hands from his throat.  
  
She had tried to hold him once, whispering soothing affirmations and promising that everything would be okay, which she didn't believe, and that she wouldn’t hurt him again, which she knew to be true.

He had woken up and, without saying a word, disentangled himself from her embrace and rolled over, his back to her. He feigned sleep, but she knew better. She nursed her hurt in silence, a practice learned long ago which she had forged into art.  
  
She had wanted to beat Giles into the ground when he had first told them, when she realized that his dream hadn't been a dream, but a portent. The dead look in his told her he would never forgive himself.

Stupid Watcher should have talked to her before telling Xander that Queen C was dead. How could the idiot not know Xander better than that? After seven years, how could he not have anticipated a complete meltdown? Especially so soon after Anya.  
  
God, had it really been less than a year since Sunnydale had fallen?

She was a twenty-one-year-old who felt like she should be popping Geritol and stocking up on Depends instead of drinking till dawn and dropping it like it was hot. Which it still was, of course.

Instead, she was playing the willing nursemaid and grief counselor to a disinterested patient who always stopped her when she tried to leave.

He still couldn’t say it, couldn’t say that he needed her, and that was okay; it really was. Sometimes silence was more profound than any overwrought monologue.

  
  
_He’s as damned as he seems,  
more heaven than a heart could hold._

  
  
This was wrong.

It was wrong that he was being put through this hell. After everything he had done, after all the people he had saved, including her, he deserved better. She knew it was wishful thinking, she knew she sounded petulant and whiny, but she didn’t care. Xander Harris was owed, and it really pissed her off that he continued to suffer more than any of the others.  
  
Pip and B had lost Big J, but Buffy still had Giles and had also gotten Angel back, and later, Spike. Sure, she wasn’t with the vamps now, but she knew they were out there, in the world, carrying on, even if it was without her.

Red? It was fucked that her witch was taken out like that, by some pissy coward who was targeting B. Later, though, Red had scored Ken. Wasn’t the same, of course, never could be, but at least Willow had been given a chance.

Every time Xander was given a chance, he either fucked it up or it was taken from him. He never meant for it to happen; he just couldn’t get past his own feelings of self-loathing long enough to believe someone might actually want him.

She had some experience with that.

Faith had figured out the deal with Queen C. Xander had really loved her. Maybe it hadn't been the type of love which was all hand-holding and violins and sonnets, but it had been real; it had been _true_. She supposed it still was, in a sense. Once Xander Harris decided he loved you, he loved for forever.

He hadn't been able to accept it, that someone had actually chosen _him_. So, in a pique of stupidity, something with which Faith was all too familiar, he had sabotaged his relationship with Cordelia by not resisting the Witch Lips.

Oh, yeah, Faith had that figured out, too. X-Man was many things, but an adulterer wasn’t one of them. He may have had some fluffy feelings for Willow, but his heart had been with the Queen. Red hadn't cared for that at all. Hello, magic spell!

He had taken his lumps, though, and she had to give him credit for that. What pissed her off was that he had taken Red’s, too. What absolutely infuriated her was that Willow had allowed it, and that Buffy and Giles were too stupid to see it.  
  
He had tried to make it work with Anya. Everyone had told Faith that. He had loved her, too, and this time, he'd known he was loved in return. It was the commitment which had scared him.

Faith got that. Xander had bought into the whole ‘a Slayer’s life is on a timeline’ thing and believed it true of himself, as well. Shit, weren’t they all living on borrowed time? It was the nature of their work.

Xander had proposed when he finally realized he would one day die. He kept postponing making plans, sure that day was dawning. When Anya forced the issue, she also forced Xander to realize that he had a choice: he could walk away. Except he couldn’t; his conscience wouldn’t let him.  
  
Those fake visions had been choice.

Faith had always loved a good mindfuck and well understood the terror of fearing you’d become your parents.

Xander couldn’t face turning into his old man, of treating Anya like his father had treated his mother, of treating his children like he had been treated, and the big lug was too stupid to realize it would never happen.

She'd seen Xander with Dawn and the Potentials. He’d be a good dad one day.

He was probably the best man she had never known. Well, of those she knew who breathed.

He was stronger than anyone had a right to be, stronger than anyone should ever have to be. He was everything every little girl planning her wedding envisioned for her happy ending. He was, at his core, all those traits people ascribed to Boy Scouts or golden retrievers, except he was real. More real than anyone, and that was scary.

  
  
_And if I try to save him, my whole world would cave in.  
It just ain’t right. Lord, it just ain’t right._

 

Who the hell was she to try and save anybody, anyway? What a fuckin’ joke. She wasn’t X or Fang. She wasn’t even B.

She was just felonious Faith, paroled because her powers were needed, not because she was wanted. What the fuck did she know about helping people other than staking the shit outta vamps? That was easy. Point, slay. How was she supposed to slay demons she couldn’t see? Demons which weren’t hers to fight?  
  
What if she failed? She could destroy him, and that would kill her. If she pushed too far, said too much, or said the wrong thing, he could break, and she knew she wasn’t be strong enough to put him back together; she was barely hanging on to herself.

Still, he wasn’t letting Red and B do their smothering thing. In fact, he had shut them out of everything that wasn’t mundane.

But he let her close.

It hurt like hell to think the only reason he permitted her presence was because she hadn’t known Cordelia or Anya well, and thus was incapable of offering the useless platitudes and halfhearted condolences which the others hurled at him like stones.  
  
She didn’t do patience well, or at all, really. She had chilled those three years in jail, but that had been different. That had been about her own survival, about wrapping her mind around the sick shit she had done, about facing the fact she had _wanted_ to do it, and accepting that she didn’t want to be like that anymore.

It was kind of the same thing with X, she figured, except he was trapped in a prison of his own creation. He was trying to reconcile the fact that the two women he had loved more than anyone in his life were dead. No second acts. He had hurt them both, badly, and there hadn't been any real reconciliation. Now there never would be.  
  
Faith wished he could see the rest: that his love had transformed them, had made Cordelia and Anya into two of the strongest women the world had ever seen. They hadn't been driven to fight evil by the spirit of some ancient demon, but by their own wills, by the initial belief Xander himself had evinced in both of them. That they were _more_.

Yeah, they had died, and it was fucking awful, but they had died heroes.

Xander made people better.

  
  
_But when I don’t know, I don’t know what he’s after.  
But he’s so beautiful, he’s such a beautiful disaster._

  
  
She didn’t know what he wanted. Sometimes, she sensed he resented her presence. Other times she was sure that presence was the only thing keeping him from disappearing, as if she was tethering him to this life.  
  
She knew she wanted him.  
  
He really was beautiful in his own way.

She hadn’t seen it before. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to. She hadn’t looked past the loud clothes and the big ears long enough to really _see_ him.

He had grown into his looks. His hair was a little floppier, his body more solid, hands more roughened. When she looked at him now, the only thing she recognized of the boy she had once so casually used and discarded was the eye.

Now he was a man, one who was shouldering more responsibility than he should have to.

Once, his eyes had shined with a curiosity and an exuberance she had found hopelessly naive.

Now his eye reflected wariness, acceptance, and an encroaching darkness which was heartrending to behold.

He wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense, or in any sense for that matter. He was uniquely Xander and he was gorgeous. She had never met anyone like him and knew she never would. His beauty radiated from his soul. That was some poetic shit she would have ridiculed had it come from anyone else, and if she had said it aloud, she would have banged her head against a wall until she had forgotten she had ever said. It was still true, though.

Damn.

She didn’t know how much more she could take of his fucking misery, though.

He allowed her to be close, but only so close. When he spoke, it was only perfunctorily: no, I don’t want anything to eat; sorry I kicked you in my sleep; have you seen my eye ointment? All conversation was insubstantial and unimportant.

Once, she had prayed that he’d have the foresight to shut his mouth; now all she wanted was for him to open up and tell her what he needed, if he even knew what that was anymore. All _she_ knew was that she didn’t have a fucking clue how to help.

That she _did_ want to help, that she wanted to do so in a non-Slaying capacity, that she was willing to put herself out there in a way even beyond how she had helped Fang, still shocked the shit out of her.

Christ, what the fuck had this pirate done to her?

 

  
_And if I could hold on through the tears and the laughter,  
Lord, would it be beautiful? Or just a beautiful disaster?_

 

 

Tears and laughter. Those were his default modes, and she didn’t know which was more pathetic.

His tears filled her with quiet wonder, for when he cried, he never made a sound; the drops just slid down his cheek and splashed on his shirt. Yet there were more agonized screams in those tears than in that primal therapy bullshit they had tried to get her to do in prison.

She wanted to collect those tears, put them in a little jar, hold them to her ear and hope she might hear what laid behind them.

She was surprised he let her see them. Maybe he wanted to share them with her or maybe he was just past caring.  
  
The tears were rare, however. More often, it was shrieking, hysterical laughter, bordering on manic.

Anything set him off. She had started unpacking his shit, because he had given no indication that he was ever gonna do it, and pulled out his high school diploma, unfurling it, and stared at his embossed name, slightly jealous that she didn’t have a certificate to call her own. He had snatched it out of her hand and smoothed it until it was so free of wrinkles, it could stand on its end. He stared at the back of it for a long time, until he finally erupted in laughter.

As it slipped from his hand, she caught it in hers, flipping it over to see what the fuck was so damn funny.

It was a message from Cordelia. _I still love you, you huge dorkus._  
  
He didn’t stop laughing for the rest of the day.  
  
 __

 

_He’s magic and myth, as strong as what I believe._

 

He really _was_ the White Knight. She knew it was Angelus who had given him that name but, later, when she would speak of him to Angel and he would invoke that name, it was tinged with a note of respect. She knew, however, that was something Xander would never want to hear.

He was stronger than anyone she had ever known. She, Red, B, Giles, Fang, even Anya...all of them had given in to the darkness; Xander never had. He could’ve, she knew. She understood that it was often easier to yield to temptation, to give in to the seductive safety which the dark promised, even though it was a fallacy. But he fought it with everything he had. It must have been so exhausting.  
  
 __

 

_A tragedy with more damage than a soul should see._   
  


 

How many people had he buried or watched die? Buffy twice; Angel once; that Gypsy teacher; Joyce; Tara; Anya; and now, Cordelia. Not to mention the Potentials and Spike.

Faith knew there were others. The girl before her, Kendra. Xander had been in the room when Drusilla had killed her. Faith figured X probably blamed himself for that, too, in some fucked-up way. Then there was that kid she had overheard X and Red talking about one day after they had turned the First into a sniveling bitch. What was his name? Jesse?  
  
 __

 

_But do I try to change him? It’s so hard not to blame him._   
  


 

She wanted to be angry with him. Often, she was.

She expected more from Xander than she did from the others, even from herself. She expected him to be strong and stalwart and funny and to see them through the bad times with a rousing speech or a dark quip. She expected him to be stronger than the rest of them, because that was his pattern.

She was disappointed that he was allowing the bad stuff to eclipse the good stuff. She hated him for giving up and giving in, because he was supposed to be better than that. Because he wasn’t supposed to be...her.  
  
She hated herself for feeling that way.  
  
She could scream at him, cajole him, bully him, and insult him; hHe didn’t care. He just sat there and took it.

Sometimes he stared at her while she ranted, quietly accepting every hurtful slur which left her mouth. Then she would rush across the room, often in tears, and beg him to forgive her, that she didn’t mean it, that she didn’t know any other way, that he was scaring her. She’d take him into her arms and murmur words of apology.

Sometimes he pushed her away, and sometimes he let her hold him, though he never returned the embrace.  
  
 __

 

_Hold me tight. Baby, hold me tight._   
  


 

That was all she wanted now, for him to hold her.

Just a small thing, really, but it would have meant so much to know that she wasn’t in this alone, that he was still in there somewhere.

He had told her that he had forgiven her for what she had tried to do to him and she knew he meant it. Wouldn't have said it he didn't.

His body would never forget, though. The way he would sometimes freeze up when she touched him, a look of guilt flitting across his eye as he tried to suppress the response; the way he would curl up on the edge of the bed, so as to put as much distance between them as possible; almost always sleeping facing her, his patch becoming distorted in the darkness and staring back at her.

One eye always open, even when one eye was all you had.  
  
Yet he let her stay. When she tried to leave, he would reach for her and just as suddenly withdraw. She knew he was just as confused as she was.  
  
 __

 

_But when I don’t know, I don’t know what he’s after.  
But he’s so beautiful, he’s such a beautiful disaster._   
  


 

She had never wanted a man the way she wanted _this_ man, although sometimes she wondered if she wanted Xander for himself or if it was because of what he represented: acceptance. If it was the latter, she knew that was a sick thing.

If Xander could really forgive her, if she could allow herself to believe that he had, then maybe she’d finally feel worthy. Of what, she wasn’t sure. She hated herself for that, because she knew it was wrong to depend on Xander for absolution, that it was wrong to pin her salvation on a man who was broken, especially when she knew she had contributed to a few of the cracks in the foundation. All that was left now was a house of cards.  
  
She was still attracted to him.

It had scared her the first time. Xander wasn’t the type of guy she went for back in the day; he wouldn’t have hurt her the way so many other had. Instead of trusting in that, in _him_ , instead of just taking that small step, instead of just taking his hand, she had tried to kill him, and thus that part of herself in which a small seed of hope had begun to flourish.

Now she longed to reach out and push his hair out of his eyes, to feel his arms wrapped around her, to hear him call out her name in his sleep, this time with desire, rather than those of dead women.  
  
 __

 

_And if I could hold on through the tears and the laughter.  
Would it be beautiful? Or just a beautiful disaster?_   
  


 

It would never be perfect.

She didn’t believe in that bodice-ripper shit which promised a happy ending, knew it was fantasy, but maybe...maybe it could be something new, something neither one of them had ever experienced before.

Sometimes she wondered which of them had it worse: she, for never having been in love; or Xander, for having found it twice, only to have it snatched away from him.  
  
She knew she was despised by the others for his inclusion of her, for letting her inside the room while they were forced to watch from a window. She didn’t care. They didn’t matter anymore.

The first time, Faith had to admit that part of the appeal of sleeping with Xander was knowing that it would hurt Buffy; and it had, even if Buffy had never admitted or understood it.

He had been her in a way he would never be Buffy’s, and she reveled in that, didn't regret it, no matter how fucked up it was.

Even more, after they had sex, Faith had been filled with glee because she knew that Buffy could have had him and that the blond Slayer’s own stupidity and shortsightedness had cost her a man who would have loved her forever.

That realization had caused Faith to throw him away as well.  
  
Now she just felt sad, for all of them, even for Buffy, because while she and Angel would always have each other, they could never be together. Buffy had tried with Spike, and later with the Immortal, but she couldn’t make it work.

Part of Faith wondered if the reason Buffy chased vampires was to steal for herself some small part of their supposed immortality.

Willow was still with Kennedy, but Faith saw that it was only a matter of time. Willow might take many lovers, but she would never give herself to anyone the way she had to Tara.

Giles had loved two women in his life: one had been murdered by an ally, the other stolen by a burst blood vessel. He would never have children of his own, and after Sunnydale had fallen, Faith had watched Giles carefully cling to his surrogate offspring like never before. He had included her in that group and, while reticent at first, Faith had finally given herself over.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what would have been if Giles had fought for her all those years ago, the way he for Buffy. Best not to dwell too much on that.  
  
Dawn. The girl was hard to figure out.

A lot of people seemed to think they knew who Dawn was, what she needed, who she would become, but they didn’t see her the way Faith did. They didn’t see how much Dawn was in love with Xander; how she measured every date against him and always found them lacking. That the reason she had turned down acceptances from some of the most prestigious universities in the world was because she would never, _could_ never, leave him.

And while Faith knew that she had some insight into the girl, she knew it was nothing compared to what Xander and Dawn saw in each other. Xander, however, would never look at Dawn the way she really wanted him to, and every time they passed in the hall, every time they sat at the dinner table together, every time they worked in the yard before Xander had secluded himself, Faith would watch Dawn watching him and could see the girl’s heart break just a little more.

That Dawn had been so insistent on forcing the others to allow her to be with Xander spoke of a quiet fortitude and a sacrificial character which she knew was the legacy of the girl’s mother.  
  
 __

 

_I’m longing for love and the logical, but he’s only happy hysterical.  
I’m searching for some kind of miracle, waiting so long._   
  


 

It didn’t make _sense_ , what she felt for him, how she wanted him.

It _hurt_ , because she could tell he wanted her, too, but would never make a move and turned her down whenever she tried.

She didn’t know how to function in a relationship in which sex wasn’t a factor. She had depended on it, she had reveled in the power it gave her over her partner. She had discovered that power early on and wielded it like a weapon until she was Called and no longer had to rely on what lay between her legs in order to be protected, to feel safe.  
  
And he _did_ make feel safe because, whatever they had, it was something pure. She knew he would never hurt her, and that was the first time she ever felt that from a man. He would never betray her, would put her first, would cherish her. He had learned from his mistakes much faster than the others. Maybe someday he would realize that.  
  
Not until he was ready to put Anya and Cordelia behind him, though. Not until he could forgive himself for his mistakes and for sins uncommitted.  
  
 __

 

_I’ve waited so long._   
  


 

All of her life she had waited for him.

Even before she ever met him, before she knew his name, she had been waiting. Hoping.  
  
 __

 

_He’s soft to the touch. But frayed at the ends, he breaks.  
He’s never enough, and still he’s more than I can take._   
  


 

His skin was soft and breathed a scent which was uniquely him. Whenever she inhaled it, she felt comfort.

She had taken to wearing his old shirts to bed. He had assumed it was because her wardrobe was limited, which it was, but that wasn’t the reason. When she donned one, sleeves became arms and he was holding her.  
  
He had changed so much since they had first met. He no longer wore his emotions like a cloak, but when she concentrated, she could sense what he was feeling. She wondered how much of that was organic to her, or how much of it was learned behavior; how much of it was _Faith_ , and how much, if any, was the Slayer. She wasn’t sure which scared more.

She thought of how Xander would react if she ever told him that it was Angel who had taught her how to love, how to take a moment and breathe. The irony was somewhat amusing.  
  
Xander wouldn’t be enough for her because she had learned that she couldn’t pin all her hopes and dreams on another, but she had also realized that she couldn’t go it alone. She wanted a partner. She wanted the fantasy. She wanted the family. Hell, even the white dress and the squalling rugrats. Gross.  
  
She _hated_ him for making her realize that she wanted of all it. She _hated_ him for making her want those things with him. She _hated_ him because he wouldn’t touch her. She _hated_ him for ignoring her until she threatened to leave. She _hated_ knowing she could never live without him.

She _hated_ knowing that she didn’t deserve him; that, no matter what good she did now, it would never fully make up for the lives she had stolen and the pain she had caused. Yes, he was giving her a chance, but in the back of her mind there was a looming fear that it was temporary, that she would fuck it up for good this time and there wouldn’t be another. He was too good for her and she knew it. Everyone knew it but him.  
  
 __

 

_He’s beautiful. Lord, he’s so beautiful._   
  


 

She _loved_ him for his strength. She _loved_ him because, even though he was in hell, she knew he would eventually come back and be stronger for it.

She _loved_ him for his ability to look at a woman and really know her, for being able to make her feel like she was the only woman in the world.

She _loved_ him because he was honest and forthright, even in his despair. She _loved_ him because he knew he wasn’t perfect and no longer expected anyone else to be. She _loved_ him because he tried harder than anyone she had ever known, because even when he was at his darkest, she knew that he held on to a glimmer of hope, no matter how deeply buried.

She _loved_ him because, even though whatever they had was still in its infancy and creaking along at a maddeningly slow pace, he made her feel Chosen for something other than death.  
  
 __

 

_He’s beautiful._

**Author's Note:**

> The song used in this story is Kelly Clarkson’s "Beautiful Disaster," off her second release, 'Breakaway'.


End file.
